


Betting On The Enemy

by rinwins



Series: The First Annual Republic City Surprise Blowjob Week [8]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Moderate Kink, Weird Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Asami receives an intriguing note and decides to do some espionage. The results are interesting, but not in the way that she expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gamble

**Author's Note:**

> This fic series was inspired by [this post](http://textsfromrepubliccity.tumblr.com/post/23602243485/218-its-surprise-blowjob-week-you-should-be) from Texts From Republic City. It is complete crack (and has been rendered utterly AU by canon).
> 
> This story in particular, however, is significantly less silly and more intense. Also, I apologize in advance.

This has got to be the stupidest thing she’s ever done.

There’s her rendezvous, just a dark shape among the shadows. Otherwise the old dock is completely deserted. If she didn’t know that her friends were watching her, safely hidden- self-defense training aside, she’d be well and truly frightened.

She takes a slow, deep breath, to make sure her voice won’t shake, and then realizes she isn’t sure what to say.

\--

It was earlier that day, just after lunch, when the note arrived. It was in a plain white envelope, addressed to Miss Asami Sato, and there were no other marks or seals anywhere on it.

“Who brought this?” Asami asked the acolyte who had brought it to her, where she and her friends sat on the broad steps near the mandala.

“I don’t know,” the man said apologetically. “Sanoh said a messenger gave it to her down at the dock. I was coming this way, so I offered to take it.”

Asami took the envelope. “Well, thank you,” she said politely. The acolyte gave a little bow and moved off.

As soon as he was gone, all four teenagers clustered around to inspect the note.

“Ooh,” said Bolin, “mysteeerious!”

“I don’t like it,” Korra decided immediately. “It’s suspicious.”

“We’ll know more if you open it,” Mako suggested.

Asami slit the envelope open carefully and pulled out the paper. It was as plain as the envelope, folded over once. “’Miss Sato,’” she read aloud, for the benefit of the other three, “’I have a proposition which you may find interesting. If you want to know more, meet me on the farthest dock at eleven tonight.’ And it’s not signed, just this red circle…”

She trailed off. For a moment, they all looked at each other. “ _Equalists,_ ” Asami said.

Her friends all started talking at once.

“How did they find out where we are?”

“What do they _want_?”

“Do you think they know it was you who stopped their plan at the factory?”

“What if they still want you to join them? You can’t join the Equalists, Asami!”

“’Come alone?’” That was Korra. “I _really_ don’t like that.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Bolin, eyes wide.

“Of course it’s a trap, Bolin, don’t be dense.” Mako, trying not to explode. “It’s not like they’re going to _surprise_ her.”

“Unless they _are_!”

“ _That’s not funny, Bolin!_ ”

“It wasn’t a _joke!_ ”

“I’m going,” Asami said. The other three shut up abruptly.

Korra was the first to find her voice again. “But-”

“I might find out something we can use. And unless it’s actually Amon, I know I can defend myself.”

“What if it _is_ Amon?” Korra said quietly.

Asami summoned up a smile, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I don’t have any bending for him to take away.”

\--

And now here she is, in a part of the city where not even the bending gangs hang out, about to find out if her own suspicions are correct.

This is just politics, she reminds herself. It’s espionage. It’s gambling with the enemy, trying to find out the other side’s secrets without giving away any of her own.

At least, that’s what she told her friends. Privately, she’ll admit there was also a bit of curiosity.

The figure standing in the shadows hasn’t moved, and she still hasn’t said anything. She takes another deep breath.

“You should know,” she says, “that I’m being watched by people from my side.”

“An admirable precaution.” Spirits, that _voice_. “I would expect no less. Of course, so am I.”

Amon steps out of the shadows. Asami holds very still.

“So, Miss Sato,” he says. “Surprise.”


	2. The Payoff

_Thanks, but no thanks_ , says her brain. Her voice, not one to listen to logic, says, “Your place or mine?” At least it came out sounding like a joke.

“Allow me to present a third option.” Amon offers an arm. Asami takes it.

They walk a short way along the waterfront, arm in arm, for all the world like two people on a casual stroll. Or a date, Asami thinks, and has to repress a burst of sick nervous laughter. Her nerves are humming like she’s in a fight, but she knows her face gives nothing away. She’s sure Amon has noticed both.

If he’s thinking anything else, she can’t tell. She can’t read him at all. His face is covered, and his movements are too well controlled. For a horrible, fascinating moment, she wonders if he’s even _human_ , and before she can pursue the thought any further they arrive at their destination.

It’s a shabby little dockhouse, the windows boarded up and graffiti scrawled across one of the walls. Amon holds the door open as if it’s City Hall. “After you, Miss Sato,” he says.

Inside, it’s incongruously neat. It’s furnished like a living space- sparse low furniture, sleeping mat on the floor, one oil lamp burning on a low table- but if anyone actually lives here, Asami would be highly surprised. She’s still taking it in, memorizing the layout, when Amon steps up behind her. She didn’t even hear the door close.

His arms reach around her, encircling her without touching her- stretched between his hands is a length of thick silk, narrower than a scarf but just as neatly edged. “I have only one condition,” his voice says, quiet in her ear, “and that is that you wear this.”

In for a yuan, in for the whole pot, Asami thinks, and swallows. “All right,” she says. She closes her eyes, and Amon ties the blindfold over them.

In the next moment, _something_ hits her in the back, the shoulders, the base of her spine. Four quick taps, and her whole body is relaxed and loose. Her legs try to fold, but Amon is behind her, holding her up.

“What was that?” she says, in a voice that comes out sounding dreamier than she’d like it to. Her skin tingles under her clothing, softly and pleasantly, everywhere their bodies touch.

“You know of chi-blocking? Consider this the opposite.” Amon’s voice is perfectly calm, the bastard. “I have temporarily opened the pathways of your chi. There will be no permanent effects- I simply want you to relax. I would be remiss if I did not make this experience as _fulfilling_ as possible.”

_Oh._

One of his arms moves- she leans back against him, half because the contact feels wonderful and half so she doesn’t fall. He shifts slightly. She shifts with him, matching his movements, and then he puts something into her hands. It’s something smooth but strangely shaped, like an irregular, shallow bowl. As he guides her to the mat on the floor, she realizes what it is.

Carefully, almost gently, he helps her down to the mat. She holds on to the mask, fingers tracing over its contours, the slightly-raised lines where the markings begin and end. It’s equal parts intimate and bizarre.

Amon takes his time removing the relevant articles of her clothing- her boots, the loose leggings she wears under her skirt, her underthings. Her nerves are still humming, but now it’s in anticipation.

Could she stop this, if she wanted to? The rules set down in the council’s resolution say she can stop the encounter at any point. She’s not sure if she could physically stop him, if he decided to ignore that, but the fact that she can _think_ about it means that whatever’s affected her body hasn’t affected her mind.

Finally he slides her skirt up. She lifts her hips to let the fabric bunch around her waist, shifts her legs farther apart. Let him think she’s eager for this- and maybe she is. Then he bends and his mouth touches her.

After this week, Asami has quite a large frame of reference for this sort of thing. She can honestly say that this is like nothing she’s experienced before. Korra is enthusiastic and intense, the way she is about everything. Bolin likes to go slow, explore, try new things. And Mako, her wonderful Mako, is a perfectionist. She always has to give him _detailed_ instructions- not, of course, that she minds.

But what Amon is doing is completely different. She can’t think how to describe it, not even to herself. She’d call it scientific, or detached, except it isn’t. He’s _clearly_ made a study of anatomy- of course he has, don’t be stupid, otherwise how could he fight the way he does- because he knows exactly which points to touch, where to press, how to long to keep his fingers or tongue or _teeth_ (oh spirits, _that’s_ definitely new) in one place and when to move. Detached, he isn’t. He’s focused, more intensely focused than she thinks should be _possible_. He doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t pause. When he stops to readjust it’s always perfectly timed, just when she’s on the verge of overload.

His _hands_. His hands are everywhere. Fingers slipping along her inner thighs, tracing over muscles in her stomach that make her shudder and arch into the touch. Hands gripping her hips, holding her steady, pressing her legs down when they threaten to jerk up and back together. She’s come too close already. She tries to keep herself under control by reminding herself of the things those hands have done.

Another exquisitely-timed pause. Amon raises his head, although his hands keep their grip on her legs. “Please don’t hold back on my account,” he says, and he actually sounds just a bit breathless. Probably an act, she reminds herself. “I assure you, I won’t think less of you if you… let go.” Of _course_ he knows. He must have noticed that she’s shaking with the effort. But she doesn’t have time to think of a witty retort, because he does something with his tongue that makes her bite her lip to keep from screaming.

Well, maybe it’s time to accept that, right now, she’s not the one in control. This time, she lets the noises that rise in her throat escape her lips. It’s a relief, actually- to forget the pretense, forget the situation and her ulterior motives and the image she’s trying to present, and just enjoy the sensations.

So of course, now that she’s relaxed, he has to introduce a new element. He takes hold of her hips and pulls her toward him, hoisting her legs up over his shoulders. The fabric of his coat feels strange and interesting against her skin, made unusually sensitive. At this angle, the sides of his hood brush her thighs- between that and the mask she’s still holding against her chest with one hand, she _can’t_ forget who she’s here with.

She braces herself against the mat with her free arm and hangs on to his shoulders with her legs. Even so, she’s still not sure she won’t collapse. She’s shaking again, fingers clutching at the mat or his mask or anything they can reach, hearing the noises she makes as if they’re coming from somewhere else. This time when she reaches the edge, she knows she’s going to go over it.

But he stops. She’s tantalizingly, infuriatingly close, and his mouth is still so close to her that she can feel his breath. She tightens her legs, trying to bring herself closer despite the fact that he’s holding her hips in place. “Please,” she breathes. “Spirits, _please_.”

He turns his head very slightly. “If you insist,” he says, low and quiet and dangerous, lips brushing the skin at the top of her thigh. Then he digs fingers into the flesh above her hipbones- exactly the right spot, of course- and lowers his mouth to her again.

Asami _explodes_ over the edge, the tightness in the base of her spine shooting stars into all the muscles and nerves of her body, fire tracing lines across the inside of the blindfold. She shudders and gasps, hitching her hips up to meet him. He holds her firmly in place until the fire in her body fades. Only when she’s still does he carefully disentangle her legs and set her gently down.

His hands take the mask back from her unresisting fingers. A few moments pass, while she gets her breathing under control. She starts to sit up- he offers a hand, helping her into a sitting position. Then he touches her shoulders, a signal to hold still, and reaches behind her head to untie the blindfold.

Even the dim light of the oil lamp seems bright to her. While she blinks against the light, letting her eyes readjust, he calmly passes her clothes back to her. Against all probability, he’s folded them neatly. Neither of them speaks. The atmosphere is strangely casual as she pulls her clothes back on, underthings, leggings, and boots. Only when she’s finished dressing does Amon look at her.

“I must thank you, Miss Sato,” he says, “for a very interesting evening. I hope you found it just as enjoyable?”

She shivers a little, seeing that mask looking at her, but she conjures a smile onto her face. “Oh, definitely,” she says.

He holds the door open for her. “And I trust you will do me the courtesy of instructing your people not to follow me.”

“They have their orders,” Asami says.

“Well,” says Amon. He looks at her for a moment, perfectly still. Then he extends a hand. Out of reflex, Asami takes it. “We’ll meet again, I’m sure. Good night, Miss Sato.”

When he withdraws his hand, he leaves something behind in hers. It’s a length of thick silk, neatly rolled- the blindfold.

And he turns and walks away, into the fog gathering over the docks. Within a minute, he’s out of sight.

Asami goes to the rail, looking out at the dark water, Aang’s statue rising hazy and golden out of the fog, and, sweeping away to the side, the lights of the city behind her. She twists the fabric between her fingers and waits.


	3. The House Always Wins

It’s a few minutes before she hears her friends’ voices coming closer.

“Asami _told_ us not to follow him,” Mako is saying, when they come into earshot.

“Pff, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to,” Korra complains. “He turned a corner and just _disappeared_.”

It’s Bolin who spots her first, still leaning against the rail of the dock, and practically runs over to her. “Asami! Are you all right?”

“Did he hurt you?” Mako catches up, puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Asami shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says.

“Did you win?” Trust Korra to think of it in terms of winning and losing. Asami nearly laughs.

“I don’t know yet,” she says. “Not until we face him again.”

Korra leans back against the rail too, propping her elbows against the rusted metal. “I don’t think I get it.”

“Dealing with the enemy isn’t always like fighting. Sometimes it’s like gambling. You don’t win or lose outright.” She pauses, organizing her thoughts. There are a lot of them. Mako puts his arm around her shoulders- she relaxes into his familiar, comfortable hold.

“When I came here, I was betting that Amon would try to get me to reveal something. Maybe something about you, Korra, or about what we’re planning. But… he didn’t.” Her voice is quiet as she wraps and unwraps the blindfold around her hands. “So I think he was betting on something else. That if he _surprised_ me, I’d question my loyalties. Or that I’d get distracted the next time we face him, or let my emotions interfere. Or that if I accepted, you all wouldn’t trust me. I think he was betting that this would divide us.”

Korra looks at her with that serious expression she’s started to have lately. “Is it going to?”

Asami meets her eyes. “If that was his bet,” she says, “he lost.”

For a few moments, there’s silence. She rolls the blindfold back up and puts it quietly into a pocket.

“So, uh,” says Bolin, “how was it?”

"It was-" She considers. “It was okay. Not better than _you_ , Bolin.”

“Hey!” Mako protests, while Korra snickers.

Asami wraps her arms around his waist and smiles at her friends. Somewhere in the city, a clock hits the stroke of midnight. “Come on,” she says, “let’s go home.”


End file.
